


A Fitting

by mssrj_335



Series: FinnPoe Addams AU [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Addams Cousin Poe Dameron, Alternate Universe - Addams Family Fusion, First Meetings, Funeral Home Flirting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Sexual Tension, Undertaker Finn, bet you never thought you'd see that as a tag, but like an Addams meet-cute, probably some weird metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssrj_335/pseuds/mssrj_335
Summary: While visiting his cousin Gomez, Poe meets a truly devastating undertaker. And, like all Addams men, is absolutely enticed by this wonderfully dark master of death.
Relationships: Finn/Poe Dameron, Finnpoe, Poe Dameron/Finn, Stormpilot - Relationship
Series: FinnPoe Addams AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977823
Comments: 21
Kudos: 51





	A Fitting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphistication](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphistication/gifts), [AgrippaSpoleto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgrippaSpoleto/gifts), [TheCarrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCarrot/gifts).



> just for fun  
> self-edited as always

“He’s beautiful.”

“Of course.”

“Stunning!”

“Agreed.”

“His face looks carved by the Devil’s own chisel! I don’t think I’ve seen an eyebrow so lethal since you married Morticia.”

Gomez grins at him, arms and legs crossed in his velvet chair, smug. Knowing. “Sounds as though he’s skewered you with it, Cousin.”

A dagger whistles by his ear—Poe catches it at the tip, feeling a little more manic. With a flick, he sends it sailing back. Unfortunately burying itself in the empty seat Gomez just vacated. He sighs gustily, throwing his hands up as he turns back to the broken window. Some metal clangs behind; Poe yanks a sword from the wall. His cousin darts, swings his sword up and across and pushing Poe back into the wall. But it’s nothing he can’t get out of. He grips the blunt edge of his blade and pushes, tucking and rolling as Gomez slashes at him with a grin.

“He’s radiant as a barrel of nuclear waste and twice as deadly.” Poe runs a hand through his hair, parrying left as Gomez goes right. “I would crawl on my belly through molten glass for him to even spit in my direction!”

“And have you—” Gomez grunts, stumbling into Lurch’s piano. “—told our wonderful undertaker of your desire?”

“No. I couldn’t possibly—”

“You could,” someone calls. “And I think that you should.”

Gomez grins over his shoulder at Morticia, leveling her own lethal eyebrow. Delicately picking her way across the drawing room to take up her husband’s seat.

“He’s such a nice man. So reserved.”

_Oh no_ —

In a flash and a snap, Gomez zips a circle around him. Slashes a hole in his suit and slaps with the flat of his blade so Poe’s sword clangs lonely on the hardwood. He grins ruefully, rubbing his wrist. He was never much of a swordsman anyway and there was no way to win as soon as Morticia came in. But to her point,

“Even if I could, my stay is almost over! I should be flying back by the end of the week.”

“Stay a while longer!” Gomez exclaims, clapping him around the shoulders and giving him a fond shake.

Morticia tilts the corner of her mouth, the closest she’ll get to a smile, and says, “The children would so love for you to. Wednesday’s been dying to ask you about the crypts.”

“And Pugsley’s marksmanship could use some work.” He pauses. Poe considers. “You could ask about his services, show an interest in his work,” his cousin smiles. Then luridly he adds, “And perhaps our undertaker would be so kind as to give you a fitting, no?”

Morticia smiles fondly. Poe feels warm all over at the insinuation but, “Oh, what the hell. You’ve talked me into it.”

* * *

The sign overhead reads _Galfridian’s Funerary Service,_ painted in white over black canvas, but Poe’s barely paying attention. At least he has the right address. He straightens his suit one last time, tucks back his slicked curls, and pushes inside. The entry door jangles in a delightfully unpleasant way, the inside foyer cool and dark. Soft sultry jazz plays over the air but there’s no one at the desk. He doesn’t frown though. There’s a lovely collection of urns on the far wall that catches his eye. Perhaps the undertaker is with another customer. He can wait. So he peruses. And there’s so many options he’s at it for some time until a deep, firm voice asks just over his shoulder,

“How can I help you?”

Poe’s not ashamed to admit he jumps at least a few inches. In part because he’d lost himself in the urns’ shine, and because the voice is dangerously close to his ear. He flails around to find just who he’d been looking for: dark and handsome.

“H-hello.”

His voice stumbles but how could it not? Behind him, silhouetted in the low light, is the undertaker. Mr. Galfridian. Standing broad and severe in his trim suit, silky red tie knotted distractingly at the collar of his shirt. His hair is braided in tight geometric designs, shadows heavy in the hollow of his cheeks, the curve of his lip. Satan preserve him, every inch of the undertaker is sleek black. And there’s that deadly brow, cocked his way in silent question.

“How…can I help you?” he asks again, this time eyeing Poe from head to toe.

The touch of his black gaze is like a rush of cold water and Poe shivers. “I—You recently fitted my cousin, and his wife. For their coffins.” He pauses, hoping for a spark of recognition but the undertaker is still as stone. It would be impressive if it weren’t so alluring. “I came with them, but thought I’d come back. Was hoping to see some of your stock. I was impressed with your work!”

He gives his most winning smile. Waits. Then the undertaker tilts his head—ah, so he can move—and hums, almost to himself, “Yesss, Addams, wasn’t it?”

“Yes! But uh—” He sticks out his hand. “—I’m Poe. Dameron.”

The undertaker’s eyes drop to his palm then back to his face. Calculating. And there, just barely, is the hint of a smile on plush lips. “Finn.”

He takes Poe’s hand in a firm, icy grip. Poe could swear his heart stops. Every hair on his body stands up like he’s being lit by a live wire. Physical contact _and_ a first-name basis? This must be Hell, surely. Or a wonderful impression of it.

“Won’t you follow me? The stockroom is just this way.”

The way Finn’s mouth forms around the word _stock_ draws stockades and pillories and chains to mind and Poe has to shake himself back to sense. Just here for an introduction. Not here to make a fool of himself leaving a trail of drool behind Finn’s stiff shoulders. Though maybe Finn would like it: Poe crawling after him, dehydrated, desiccated, desperate—

“We have a large collection of caskets and coffins. These are some of our most popular,” Finn says, pushing open a door and holding it as Poe follows through. “Were you looking for something more contemporary or…”

He trails off, watching as Poe hits the showroom floor. Nearly a dozen death boxes line the walls, glinting in a dull yellow light. But all of them are caskets. Bright and ostentatious. Perfectly fine for someone not of Addams blood. Not Poe. He glances back.

“I’m looking for something a little more…traditional. Is there a coffin you’d recommend? I don’t see one here.”

Coffins must hold Finn’s favor because that ghost of a smile at the corner of his lip returns.

“Come this way.”

At the back of the showroom is another door, carefully secreted behind a standing casket. Finn produces a key from his suit jacket, leads Poe through. It opens into a dark hallway. Poe’s heeled boots click on the concrete but Finn makes no sound. Which is wonderfully distracting. At the end another door creaks open, almost by Finn’s will alone, and quite abruptly they’ve reached the prep room. An old-fashioned one at that, covered in ceramic tiles and harsh fluorescent light. A lone embalming table, battered and well-used sits center. Poe runs a finger down its sleek surface, vividly and _very_ lewdly bombarded with an idea—several of them actually—of what to do with Finn on that table. His jaw drops a little at the fantasy but his neck snaps with the sound of a closing drawer. And there’s Finn, looking at him over the table. Somehow even more deliciously austere against the white tiles. A tape measure in hand.

_Oh my._

“Arms out please, feet together.”

Poe’s limbs comply before he’s even really registered the request. “Do you…always measure your clients the first time?”

Finn’s black eyes slide over him again as he rounds the table. “I assumed that, like your cousin, you’d be trying one today. A fitting is necessary.” His hands whisper over Poe’s shoulders, tape taut against the back of his shoulders. “Was I wrong to assume?”

“Not at all,” Poe swallows as Finn works down one side of his back then the other. “In fact, I appreciate the speed.”

There’s a soft huff, a breath on the back of his neck. “Do you like to go fast, Mr. Dameron?”

The way Finn says his name sounds like a death sentence and his heart sprints towards it. “Just Poe.”

Finn turns Poe on the spot so his ass bumps the embalming table, fingers digging in his arms like spades. “That’s no answer.”

Abruptly he drops to one knee, tape measure tight along the line of Poe’s leg, from his hip to his foot. Poe might as well be in a desert for all the moisture left in his mouth. Finn looks up at him, quite pointedly. Lets his tape pull and snap closed, the sharp end of it catching on Poe’s thigh, a pleasant bite of pain.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I guess I do.”

Fluid as blood, Finn flows back to his feet. Unblinking stare on Poe the whole way up. He tilts his head when they’re eye to eye. Considering. Poe tries to wet his chapped lip and only succeeds at drawing Finn’s attention there. The undertaker slides a finger under Poe’s chin. Tilts his head back, puts him nearly off balance over the edge of the worktop. Poe’s hands clench, desperate to bury themselves in Finn’s layers, under every inch of his clothes and lay him bare on the table. Worship him however Finn would see fit.

“I supposed you do,” Finn murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer.

But just as Poe thinks that might be an invitation, Finn drops the tape measure on the metal with a clang and pulls away. Poe jumps—again—and that smile is back. Leading him away from the table to another door.

“Just this way,” he says, holding out a hand

Poe’s blood is absolutely on fire. Fevered. Anxious. At this point any other torture would be better than the absence of Finn’s fingers on his skin. And Finn, seeming to sense his distress, smiles wider. Teeth peek past the curve of his lip. A grin. A little more life to it, stumbling onto his face like a zombie.

Slow and steady.

Hungry.

“I think I have a mahogany sample that would be just your size. Perhaps even a double casket, if you’d like to explore.”

Agony. _That’s_ an invitation if he’s ever heard it. Poe grins back. Takes Finn’s proffered hand and presses it almost to his lips.

“Sounds like a fine start.”

**Author's Note:**

> what's finn playing in his shop?
> 
> [well funny you should ask](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2sTQpF-Bo9LX2_QF6-JlsMjdaItz011j)
> 
> [now with art by the fabulous agrippaspoleto!! T_T](https://agrippaspoleto.tumblr.com/post/632254085119229952/my-heart-is-a-haunted-house-once-youre-in-you)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Anything, My Love!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052873) by [sapphistication](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphistication/pseuds/sapphistication)
  * [9/10ths](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138247) by [TheCarrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCarrot/pseuds/TheCarrot)
  * [Must Be The Season of The Witch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27307171) by [linatrinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linatrinch/pseuds/linatrinch)




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